Whatever Samara was, he was distinctive. A minor captain had interviewed him. His humanness was a central question. There were oddities in the bioscans, and shown the details, Samara nodded and smiled, tiny teeth flashing in a small, thin-lipped mouth. Then a voice more suitable for a bird said, “Yes, yes. A consequence of my home world. But those bodies are inert. Take all you want and watch them. Feed them. Torture them, if you wish. Nothing will happen because they aren’t alive.” The bodies were organic, convoluted and holding a passing resemblance to mitochondria. “They’re produced by the natives. They get inside us, and there’s no ridding of them. Unless you want to endure a cell-by-cell scrubbing, which I’m willing to do if you believe this grit might pose some kind of threat…” Samara was small and almost pretty, attempting charm but not quite succeeding. If Pamir had been the interviewer, knowing nothing, he would have pressed the man for more information. Why leave the home world? What was his ultimate destination? There was ample reason to delay, pulling new tests from the bottomless bag that every captain possessed. But that little captain had avoided any ugliness, moving toward short-term issues. “How will you live here?”
